


The New Toy

by isis_astarte_diana



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: (mostly), Boot Worship, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemy to Caretaker, F/F, Kidnapping, Medical Torture, Missy Is Her Own Warning, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Sexual Bondage, Psychological Torture, Reader-Insert, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, Whipping, Whump, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:28:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 20,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27118889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isis_astarte_diana/pseuds/isis_astarte_diana
Summary: If Missy can't find a suitable companion, she will make one.
Relationships: Missy (Doctor Who)/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 70





	1. No. 1 - Waking Up Restrained

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at a 31 day challenge - for Whumptober 2020. This is inspired largely by the version of Missy presented in the Big Finish series "Missy", where her characterisation is darker, more complex and, I think, more exciting than it is in the show, but if you're not familiar with the series, that shouldn't make a difference! It's pre-Vault and, I think, pre-Dark Water?

Your _head hurts_.

It’s all that you’re conscious of as you stir - juddering, throbbing pain that radiates from your eyes and ears, tightening in your temples and making you dizzy. A soft groan shakes from your dry mouth. It feels like the worst hangover you’ve ever had.

“And so little Briar Rose did awaken.”

You squeak at the unfamiliar voice, opening your eyes too quickly. It sends a fresh wave of nauseating pain through your skull and you close them immediately, trying again, more slowly this time.

The room is dim. All you can make out are beams of amber and violet light, casting in silhouette the figure of a woman standing in front of you. You’re face down on a cold floor. You go to prop yourself up, lift your face from the wire mesh that presses uncomfortably into your cheek, and find that you cannot. Pressure makes itself known around your wrists, locking them together in the small of your back.

Only now does panic set in. “Where am I?” Your voice is sore and raspy.

“Wrong.” The woman taps her foot impatiently, near enough to your face that you can feel the reverberation. “Try again. Better question.”

Your eyes squeeze shut as you struggle to make any sense of your surroundings. “What happened?”

“Oh, no, no, still wrong.” She sighs theatrically. “One more try, now, poppet, before I get _bored_ and make my own fun.”

“I’m not- I don’t- who _are_ you?”

“Oh, _finally_.”

You shriek and squirm when two strong hands loop under your arms, tugging you forcefully up to your knees. Her fingers dig into the soft flesh of your biceps. Pushing you back on your heels, she grips your lower jaw and lifts your face to her.

You squint into the lights that form a halo around her, picking out the shape of her dress and the dark hair pinned up at the back of her head.

She grins, teeth glistening wetly in the gloom. “I’m your Mistress.”

She bends at the waist and you inhale sharply as her face comes into view, beautiful and frightening, all wild eyes and painted lips. With a pout she leans in close enough that your noses touch.

“Now, _give us a kiss_.”


	2. No. 2 - Collars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missy shows off her engineering skills - and her sadistic streak.

“I told you to stop _squirming_.”

Missy punctuates the words with a sharp tug on your hair, yanking your head to the side. You cry out as needles of pain prick at your scalp.

“Yes, Mistress,” you manage through gritted teeth. “Sorry, Mistress.”

“You will be when my hand slips and you take a screwdriver to the neck.” She pats your head roughly and resumes fiddling with the device. “This is delicate work as it is, dear, and I don’t need _you_ making it harder for me.”

The ring of cool metal around your neck beeps quietly. It’s as thick as your index finger and rests heavily against your collarbone. She sits behind you in the leather chair at her TARDIS console while you kneel between her legs, keeping your hands out of the way in fear of provoking her into restraining you. The floor presses hard and unyielding into your knees.

Through the open doors you can see a familiar autumnal scene. It could be any major British city - the featureless market square, the shedding trees, the wandering people ignoring the spaceship-cum-time-machine as they walk past it. A faint breeze chills you.

“There.” She pulls back, her hands falling from your neck. “Not bad, if I do say so myself. Have a feel.”

You touch the collar and it beeps again. Feeling around the outside you find what seems to be the fastening and run your thumb over it. It’s seamless. There’s nothing to fiddle with, nothing to tug at, no lock to pick; just smooth, solid metal.

“Let’s see if it works, shall we?” She crosses her legs and nudges you, none-too-gently, with a boot square in your back. “Off you go.”

You fall forward onto your palms with a wince. “Go _where_?”

“Out there! Go on.” She gestures to the door, the world outside, the promise of freedom. “Newcastle. Your time. You can find your way home from there, can’t you?”

“It’s a trick,” you mutter bitterly, eyeing the paved city centre with suspicion.

“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Only one way to find out. Now _go_ , before I change my mind.”

Despite yourself, you can’t help feeling a glimmer of hope as you rise to your feet and hurry to the door.

_Idiot._

The moment your shoulder touches the hollow space inside the doorway a jolt of blazing pain knocks you back. The collar around your neck buzzes and stings like an angry wasp and you cry out, your hand flying up to it. It stops as soon as you fall back from the door.

“Ha! _Perfect!”_ She laughs and claps her hands, giddy, as you steady yourself from the shock. “Containment field around the TARDIS. Try and leave without my permission and you’re in for a _nasty_ surprise.”

Your mouth tastes like pennies. Tears burning at your eyes, you glance wistfully out at the slow drizzle of rain.

“Now come back here.” Her voice is hard once more. “Let’s adjust the current and see if we can make some _sparks_.”


	3. No. 3 - Forced To Kneel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An attempt at disobedience goes about as well as you'd expect.

“No.”

“ _No_?” To your credit, Missy actually looks surprised. She quirks an eyebrow, staring you down, making you shrink back where you stand in front of her. After a moment she laughs, sharp and humourless. “Oh, that’s good. Very good, very cute, my dear.” Brushing away non-existent moisture from beneath her eye, she steps closer. “Now _get on your knees_. I won’t tell you again.”

You swallow hard and square your shoulders. Your eyes flit over her face. “No, Missy.” Thankfully you sound much stronger than you feel.

It doesn’t fool her. She smiles, sickle-sharp, too many teeth glistening in her red mouth. “Well, if you’re in the mood to play,” she pushes her face into yours, close enough to kiss you, “then let’s _play_.”

Before you can even register that she’s moving her knee lands squarely in your stomach.

The impact knocks the wind out of you. You crumple, falling heavily to your knees with a cry, curling in on yourself as you cough and try to drag in a painful breath. Your hands press against the aching knot in your abdomen.

“I like a girl with a bit of _fire_ in her but there’s a time and a place.” The cold leather toe of her boot nudges your chin up. “I am your _Mistress_ and you _will_ obey me, you understand?”

You blink back scalding tears and croak, “yes, Mistress.”

“There’s a good girl.” She moves her foot and your chin drops back to your chest. “Prove it.”

Leaning in, you lower your head to press a kiss to the top of each of her boots.


	4. No. 4 - Caged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How to train your companion. Lesson one - escapology.

"Twenty.”

“Missy, please, I don’t know how to-”

“Then _look._ God, do I have to tell you how to do _everything_? Nineteen.”

“What am I supposed to be _looking_ for?”

She sighs, leaning forwards in her chair to fix you with her sparkling blue eyes. “An _escape_ route. You’ve been captured and _locked up_ all on your lonesome, and the guard watching you is distracted by a noise outside. How are you going to free yourself before they come back? You have-” she glances down at her pocket watch. “Ooh, fifteen seconds. Best be quick.”

“But-”

“ _Tick tock_ , says the clock.”

With a frustrated cry you whip around, searching for something, _anything_ that might in aid your escape. You’re sitting awkwardly in a cage on the floor, not quite big enough to stand in, with your arms cuffed behind your back. You spot something long and thin flashing on the ground outside, just out of reach of your bound hands.

It’s one of her strange tools.

Twisting yourself painfully with a grunt of exertion, you’re able to toe off your shoe and slide your foot out through the gap in the bars.

“Took you long enough,” she complains. “I know humans are slow off the mark but _that_ was agony to watch. Six seconds.”

You manage to grip the object beneath your curled toes and drag it back into the cage. It takes another few moments to shift around enough to pick it up. You fumble blindly to find the button with your thumb and when you do, the electromagnets that bind your wrists together fail and leave your arms free. Wasting no time, you aim the device at the door of the cage.

“ _There_ we are.” She stands with a flourish and crosses the room, towering over you as you crawl out of the cage. “That was supposed to be easy.”

“Easy?” You spit it out through gritted teeth and she laughs.

“I know you didn’t enjoy that much, dearest, but you’ll be grateful for these generous lessons once you start accompanying me on my travels.” She folds her arms and gives you a withering look. “There are people in the universe even _nastier_ than me, you know.”

You narrow your eyes at her. “I find that very hard to believe.”

“You always say the _nicest_ things.” 

Missy steps over you, standing astride your back, and bends to snatch the tool from your hand. She jerks your arms back into place with enough force to make your shoulders ache in protest and locks the cuffs together once more. Enraged as you are, all that you can do is groan.

“Now,” she plants her knee heavily in the small of your back, making you cry out, and wraps strong fingers around your left ankle. “Let’s see if you can do it in a hogtie.”


	5. No. 5 - Failed Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time you leave the TARDIS as Missy's companion is the only time you ask a stranger for help.

“Please. Please, I need your help.”

Rising from her crouch, the ship’s engineer wipes the dirt from her hands onto her green dungarees. “What’s wrong?” Her pale brows draw together with concern.

“Look, I-” you glance around furtively, making sure there’s no sign of Missy in the corridor. Her voice echoes from the control room, issuing commands. “You understand alien tech, yeah?”

“I hope so.” She closes the electrical panel she’s been working on with the heel of her combat boot. “Do you need me to look at something?”

“Please. Just- not here.”

“Okay, okay,” she soothes, sensing the panic you’re trying to supress. “I’ve got a workroom down the hall. Come on.”

Thrusting your hands into your pockets, you scurry behind her with hunched shoulders. Every echoing footstep makes the back of your neck itch. Even knowing that you’re alone with the engineer, you could swear that Missy’s watching you.

She locks the workroom door from the inside and you unfasten your coat, showing her the flashing metal collar it had been concealing. “Think you can do anything with this?”

The sight of it makes her wince in sympathy. “I can try.” She motions to the steel workbench and you lift yourself up to sit on it while she opens her toolbox. “How the hell did you end up with it?”

You swallow hard, eyes fixed on the door. Somehow the deadbolt doesn’t make you feel safe. “You saw the woman I came in with?”

She looks up from the box for a second. “I take it she’s not your girlfriend, then.”

It makes you scoff. “Not as far as I know.”

“Right, well, this should do _something_.” She brandishes a long, thin tool that you don’t recognise. “Let me have a look what’s going on inside this thing.”

When she starts to work on it, the collar emits a sharp whine. There’s an accompanying shock, though not as strong as the one you would receive if it was activated. You flinch and swear under your breath.

“Sorry,” she mutters. “Looks like it discharges when you open it up. There might be a few more, yet. Don’t know what triggers it.”

“If you can get it off me, I don’t care.” Your hands tighten on the edge of the bench. “You might need to hurry, though.”

“I’ll go as fast as- _wow_.” She cuts off, frowning, and your pulse skips.

“What? What is it?”

“Well- look, most of this is tech I don’t recognise. There’s definitely a receiver and a transmitter, but _this_ …” She digs a small piece of circuitry out of the innards of the collar and holds it up on the end of the tool to show it to you. “I think this must be a-”

“A tracking chip?”

Missy’s voice could freeze the blood in your veins.

She’s _behind_ you. The bolt on the door hasn’t even twitched.

“Where are your manners, dearest?” The click of her heels on the metal floor is entirely unhurried. You can feel her eyes on your back. “Introduce me to your new friend.”

Your tongue feels thick and clumsy. “I- we-”

“I was just helping,” the engineer pipes up, much more steadily than you ever could. “Adjusting the fit, you know.”

“And they say chivalry is dead.” Missy’s hand brushes across your shoulder. You can’t bite back a whimper. “Well, she is _now_.”

The blonde doesn’t even have time to scream.

With a single bolt of blue light, loud as thunder, she’s a pile of smoking dust on the ground. You shriek.

“You didn’t have to _do_ that!” Whipping your head around to face her, you push hard against her chest. “I would have come back, I would have done whatever you said!”

“Oh, I know.” Swiftly bored by your meagre display of rage, she grabs your wrists with bruising strength. “But I _wanted_ to. Call it a crime of passion.” She leans in until her nose brushes your ear. “She tried to steal my girl.”

Barely hiding a shudder, you cry, “it was _my_ fault, I asked her, she was just trying to help me!”

“And _you_ will be punished in due course.” She tugs at your wrists, hauling you painfully to your feet. “Now, you’re going to walk _quietly_ back to the TARDIS, and you’re going to smile and wave at all those little people out there, or else _I_ ,” she bares her teeth, “am going to turn them inside out while you watch. Understood?”

You nod mutely, blinking back tears. She tightens her grip until the joints scream in protest.

“Say _yes, Mistress_.”

“Yes, Mistress,” you croak.

Missy’s face splits with a beaming smile and she lets go of your wrists, wrapping her arm around your waist and tugging you against her side. “There’s a good girl.”


	6. No. 6 - "Get it out."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missy devises a more permanent solution now that the shock collar is out of service.

You think it might be better if you could see her.

Lying like this - face down on a bed in the medical bay, immobilised with broad, transparent straps across your waist and legs and shoulders - her every movement is a mystery. The click of her heels on the tiles, the clatter of steel instruments, the hiss and hum of the TARDIS are all tortures in and of themselves.

Even she could dream up no torment greater than that of not _knowing._

“Is that what you think?”

Missy chuckles when you jerk in your restraints, trying to turn and look at her over your shoulder but not able to. The right side of your face is pressed into hospital-crisp linens.

“Your mind is _deafening_ , poppet. Don’t look so surprised.”

Wheels against the ground, rolling like thunder. A surgical trolley rattles into view and, with it, _her_ , imperious in violet, sleeves rolled up and cuffed at her elbows. She smiles her carnivore’s smile.

“You know, if you were so desperate to take off the collar, you could have just _asked_.” Her fingertips ghost over your jaw and you whimper. The touch is faint, ticklish, as intimate as that of a lover. “We could have done this days ago. I’d have made it painless.” A pause. She purses her lips. “Well, relatively.”

“I’m sorry, Missy.” Your voice trembles. “I didn’t mean to-”

“Shh, shh,” she covers your lips with her index finger. “Mummy’s talking now. Be a good little companion, and listen.”

Wide-eyed, you fall silent.

“I want you to _remember_ ,” she continues, saccharine sweet, “that this _didn’t_ have to hurt so much. It was always going to happen. You just made it worse for yourself. You understand?”

She moves her hand and taps your chin. You can’t muster enough breath to respond. Instead, you nod as best you can.

“That’s a good girl. Would you like to see what I have for you?” She quirks an eyebrow, sadistic pleasure sharp behind the curve of her smile. “Or would you rather it was a surprise?”

_A test of your resolve, then._

“Can I see?” So pitifully meek, your own voice is a shame to you. You cling to the hope that she might show mercy to a well-behaved pet. “Please, Mistress.”

With an odd sort of tenderness she answers, “of course, dear.”

From the tray at her side she produces a Petri dish. Inside it, something small and black rattles against the glass.

“Much more discrete, don’t you think?” She shows it to you, turning the dish so that you can get a sense of the dimensions. It’s the size and shape of a pill capsule. You can just make out the microscopic circuitry inside. “More sophisticated, too. It can track your location and administer… _corrective_ doses of electricity,” she chuckles quietly to herself. “But it will also give me a _direct_ feed into your central nervous system.”

Clenching your useless hands where the straps keep them pressed tight to your sides, you whisper, “that sounds very clever, Mistress.”

Her eyes light up. “And _you_ are very welcome, poppet.” She taps the tip of your nose with her index finger. “I’ll have access to _so much_ data, I’ll barely need you to speak at all. I could cut your tongue out and it wouldn’t matter.” Your sharp intake of breath makes her smile crinkle at the corners. “But then you wouldn’t be able to say such _nice_ things about me.” As if in reward she tickles the underside of your jaw with her fingernails and your neck twitches.

Eager to keep her talking, you ask softly, “how does it work?”

“Oh, that’s the _best_ part!” She shivers with glee. “I know the collar was inconvenient, but this won’t be such a temptation for you to fiddle with. Once it’s in, you’ll hardly even notice that it’s there.”

“Once- once it’s in?”

“Of course.” She tidies your hair out of the way with astonishing gentleness and draws her fingertip across the back of your neck. “Just here, between these vertebrae. That way it can latch right onto your spinal cord.”

With that, she’s moving; the gleaming steel trolley stops at the end of the bed and she takes a seat behind you. You can feel her closeness, her shadow across your shoulders.

“Missy-”

You cut off with a whine at the snapping sound of latex and then a gloved hand rests on your neck, thumb pulling the skin taut against your spine. She wipes something over the back of your neck, cold and stinging, like antiseptic. It makes your skin prickle. Gasping, you twist under her hand.

“Settle down, now,” she warns, not unkindly. “This is going to sting a wee bit, but that should ease off, once the searing pain kicks in.”

“Please, Missy.” You already know it’s futile but the instinct to beg is insurmountable. “Please, I’ll be good, I’ll do whatever you say, just please _don’t_ -”

“Now, _what_ did I say?” Her fingers dig into your neck until it aches. “I’m not just doing this because I’m cross with you. It’s for your own good. What kind of Mistress would I be if I didn’t get my pet microchipped, hmm?” She loosens her grip again. “If you hadn’t tried to run off I would have given you something for the pain. You’re the one who turned it into a punishment.”

“I’m sorry.” You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling traitorous tears creep along your nose and towards the bed. “I’m sorry, Mistress.”

“I know you are, dear.” The faintest bite of something sharp on the nape of your neck makes you twitch and sob. “Ready?”

“No!” Breath quickening, you try to struggle again, but there’s nowhere, nothing, not an inch of slack. You can’t even turn your head. “Please, please, Mistress, don’t do it, _please_ -”

Shushing you, she presses the scalpel in and drags it down an inch. Skin and flesh parts in its wake with pain like liquid fire. You clench your teeth so hard that your jaw grinds in protest and howl, straining at your restraints. Hot rivulets of blood trail down your neck.

“I know, I know,” she soothes. “Sometimes I forget just how much blood you _have_ in these bodies. I can’t see a thing.”

Soft gauze clears the blood from your skin, irritating the blazing wound as it passes over it. Your mouth falls open and you gasp great, sobbing breaths.

“There we are. Much better.” She leans closer, her voice low and conspiratorial. “Now, we need to pop this in quite deep so that the nanotech can do its job, and that might be a _teensy_ bit uncomfortable for you. You can scream as much as you like, but please do _try_ not to bite your tongue off, alright?”

Sharp metal digs into the cut and _pulls_ , separating the edges, spreading it wider to allow passage for the implant. She speaks over your cries.

“If you’re a _very good_ little puppy, you can have a treat once we’re finished.”


	7. No. 7 - Enemy To Caretaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-operative care. Kind of.

“No, no, no, keep still.”

Even as she takes hold of your flailing arms with cold hands, Missy’s voice is a soothing murmur. The straps are still in place around your legs, but no sooner has your upper body been freed from its restraints than you’re squirming and scrabbling to reach the incandescent pain in the back of your neck.

You try to fight her but she’s too strong, pinning your hands into the small of your back. Wailing into the sheets, you jerk in her grasp.

“It’s alright, it’s alright.” Her thumbs press into your wrists and rub slow, calming circles. “I know it hurts, dearest, but you need to leave it alone. You’ll only make it worse.”

You let out a muffled scream of pain and frustration and she shushes you tenderly.

“I don’t want to restrain you again, but I can’t have you ripping at your stitches. If you can’t keep your hands away I’ll have to do it for you, do you understand?” You nod shakily, teeth bared, sobbing. “Do you think you can keep still for me?”

It doesn’t even cross your mind to lie.

There’s nothing to be gained from it. As soon as she lets go of your hands you know you’ll have to touch the wound, to press your palm over the dressing there, to try and soothe the blazing sting of the injury and the four tight stitches she’s placed across it.

“No,” you keen honestly. “No, Missy, I _can’t-”_

“Shh, shh, that’s fine.” There’s a startling amount of comfort in the way she handles you now. “That’s fine. I can help you. Just stay like this, just for a second.” She clasps your hands together and lets go. Before you can even register that she isn’t pinning you down any more she’s working something soft around each wrist. “Good girl. This is just a precaution, that’s all. You should be fine in a few days.”

When her hands move there are padded restraints locking your wrists together in the small of your back. They’re tolerably tight and the angle is forgiving, not putting much strain on your muscles.

“Come on.” She makes quick work of the other straps, freeing your legs, and helps you to your feet without any undue roughness. “Let’s get you to bed.”

If you weren’t so unbearably exhausted, you might have the energy to be suspicious of the way she guides you through the halls of her TARDIS and to your bedroom. As it is, you find yourself leaning into her body for support.

She lets you.


	8. No. 8 - Abandoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're on TARDIS-arrest while you recover, but Missy still has things to do.

Missy has been gone for two days.

At least, you think she has. It’s hard to tell in the TARDIS - the passage of time feels decidedly ill-defined. You’ve been to bed twice since she left, though how long you slept each time you couldn’t say.

You’re already bored of wandering around the ship. Most of the doors are locked, anyway; anywhere that you could cause trouble in her absence is firmly inaccessible. You know that the TARDIS herself is at least semi-sentient, so it’s a mystery as to how much is her doing and how much is down to your captor. Either way, you don’t find any new rooms to investigate.

It’s not as if this is the first time you’ve walked these strange halls alone. Conditional on good behaviour, you’re usually free to roam at will. Within the ship you’re barely a prisoner at all.

Still, something keeps drawing you back to the console room.

You sit on the stairs with a cup of tea, attempting to read. The library - like every other room you’ve been in - is sumptuous and well-stocked, but you feel better here. Safer.

You can see the doors.

Despite your best efforts your eyes are drawn to them. You haven’t yet tested the capabilities of the new implant, which still sits heavy and uncomfortable beneath healing stitches, and it does enter your mind to try and leave, but you haven’t worked up the courage yet.

Courage. That’s what you’re missing.

You definitely don’t miss _her_.

There’s an odd sort of hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach as you stare at the closed doors. This is the longest you’ve been left on your own. Where, before, it might have felt like a mercy, a welcome chance to breathe and live and _be_ , now it just feels…

Lonely.

Furious with yourself for the thought, you stand up and turn on your heels, heading back to your bedroom. It must be getting time to sleep again.

The sound of the doors unlocking stops you in your tracks.

“You would not _believe_ how much of a pain in the backside that was.”

Missy in a good mood is _radiant_. There’s a wild, ecstatic, satisfied exhaustion about her voice now, and it tugs at your lips with something too much like a smile for your own comfort.

“Honestly, it was like trying to get blood from a _stone_.” She pauses and chuckles to herself. “Well, more like five or six very squishy, very _animated_ stones. Still, let’s not split hairs.”

She approaches with an exaggerated sigh.

“Aren’t you going to come and look at what I found? That’s what I _got_ you for, poppet. Who else is there to tell me how clever I am?”

When you slowly turn to face her, she’s grinning, holding out a device that you don’t recognise. It’s caked with blood and gore.

“Finally. Didn’t you miss me?”

You don’t answer as you come to her side and reluctantly inspect whatever she’s holding. The writhing sensation in your chest doesn’t feel like disgust.

It must be, though.

Probably.


	9. No. 9 - Ritual Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your second-ever trip out as companion doesn't go much better than the first.

“Nice dress.”

Missy’s voice behind you makes you jump and twist in your bonds. With your ankles firmly bound together like this you stumble, but the unforgiving ropes suspending your wrists from the low ceiling don’t let you fall. Your shoulders wrench painfully when they take your weight for a moment and you quickly straighten up, standing on the balls of your feet to ease the strain.

She leans on her sonic umbrella, eyeing you with a smirk. “Having fun?”

You’re aiming for something along the lines of _untie me, right now_ \- possibly with a few furious expletives thrown in for good measure - but all that you can manage through the knotted rope in your mouth is a series of muffled noises. She chuckles.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry, what was that?” 

She turns her head, cupping a hand against her ear. Your frustrated shout is softened and made ridiculous by the gag and you can’t stamp your foot for emphasis with your ankles restrained. The ropes dig painfully into your skin with blistering roughness and your jaw is cramping from the size of the knot in your mouth. Missy nods theatrically.

“Oh, right. I see. I _think_ I’ve got you. _You_ ,” she points to you with the tip of her umbrella, “got yourself captured by some very pious ladies in long robes. They gave you a _remarkably_ intimate bath, anointed you with oil, put you in this-” her eyes flicker over your suspended body in a way that makes you wish somebody would just _kill you already_ , “- _tiny little_ white dress and strung you up from the ceiling to be eaten by their serpent god.”

You groan again and nod reluctantly, but she isn’t finished.

“Only, as it turns out, said god is _not_ a mythical being or a metaphor for the bountiful yet _deadly_ powers of the natural world etcetera and is, in fact, a very real, very big, very _hungry_ snake.”

You tilt your head to indicate the space behind you in the cave and she follows the path with her umbrella.

“And _that_ ,” she gestures to the rough-hewn tunnel in the floor near your feet, “is where it lives.”

You confirm her words with a _very_ urgent, _very_ wide-eyed nod.

“Excellent.” She taps the umbrella against the ground again and pauses for a moment. “Right, well, good luck with that.”

The scream you let out behind the gag makes your throat burn and your ears ring, but she turns on her heels without acknowledging it and strolls out of the cave and into the starry night.


	10. No. 10 - Blood Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missy has a plan, and it doesn't involve you being eaten by a giant snake. (Probably).

You’d assumed there would be chanting. **  
**

Not, admittedly, that you have much firsthand experience of human sacrifice; but in the films, there’s always chanting.

You think it would be preferable, if only to give you something to listen to besides the pounding of your own heart and the slow, wet stirring of something huge and ancient in the tunnel beneath you. The hooded women surrounding you stand in monastic silence.

One of them steps forward, arm raised, a sharpened flint as black as night clutched in her pale fingers. Her face is shrouded in darkness. The crowd parts to let her through, dispersing into a wide ring until only you, and she, and the hole in the ground are left in the dim pool of lantern-light that illuminates the cave. She closes the distance between you and circles you with an unhurried sort of relish.

Her palm lands on your stomach. You shrink uselessly from the touch and end up pressed against her, trembling in your bonds, breaths short and sharp through the knotted rope that steals all the saliva from your mouth. The edge of the stone is ice-cold, ticklish as it trails from your exposed underarm and up to your elbow.

It’s less ticklish on the way back down.

The path taken by the flint ignites in scalding pain. You buck like a trapped animal but she holds you tighter while the first stream of hot blood starts to creep down your arm. Tears sting your eyes.

She changes hands - looping her arms around your waist to do it - and repeats the procedure on your other arm. This time the cut makes you shriek, hoarse, around the rope. Your bare toes scrape the damp moss on the stony ground.

The smell of salt and iron starts to fill your nostrils.

Underground, the movement quickens.

Cold fingers push the short hem of the dress almost to your left hip and the stone knife strikes again, slicing down the front of your thigh, ending an inch above your knee. Your leg quivers under the sting.

Again, on your right thigh. Blood slicks and cools in the backs of your knees.

The woman - the priestess - steps away and leaves you there to bleed, staring into the unforgiving darkness of the tunnel a few feet in front of you.

Before long something stares back.

Drawn by the smell of fresh blood, a snake the size of which you cannot comprehend begins to haul its limbless body from the pit.

Through the haze of tears and horror, the dizziness of bleeding in an unfamiliar cave on an unfamiliar planet, all you can make out are the shimmering grey-green scales and the _eyes_ , milk-pale and lidless, obviously blind. A forked tongue the length of your forearm tastes death in the air.

You choose not to see what happens next.

Clamping your eyes tightly shut, you fight to ignore the heavy weight of the creature slithering closer with a sound like nightmares come to life. When you feel the first breath against your toes you think, for a moment, that you might _actually_ die of fright.

Behind you, the priestess lets out a _very_ familiar chuckle.

“Well aren’t _you_ a handsome boy?”

For the first time, Missy’s voice floods you with relief.

You twist frenziedly in your bonds to see her shrugging off the hooded robe and retrieving her sonic umbrella from beneath it. The movement costs you your footing and the snake takes its opportunity to strike.

Its mouth is cool and soft when it engulfs your ankles. The thin membranes cling like wet fabric. You squirm and try to kick out with your bound feet but pulsating rings of muscle grasp at them, forcing you deeper into its throat. Your jubilance is quickly overwhelmed by primal horror.

With their ritual disrupted, the women begin to close in around you. Missy clears her throat and points her umbrella at the ceiling, looking terribly bored.

A deafening bolt of electricity lights the cave up in crackling blue.

The crowd falls back.

“That’s better. Eyes on _me_ , please. Pay no attention to the woman inside the snake.” 

She circles you again, brandishing the umbrella, not turning to see you sliding into the snake’s mouth up to the knees. Your muffled cries fall on deaf ears. “Let’s be quick about this, because I’m _very_ busy and I’m feeling _ever_ so zappy, so it’s not a good time to test my patience. You!”

The hooded figure she indicates with the end of her umbrella flinches and Missy sighs.

“That thing you use to put the big man here back to bed? The one with the shiny red button? Get it for me.”

She nods and scurries off in a flutter of black fabric. Missy finally looks at you, just as the snake begins to works its way up your bloodied thighs.

“The _look_ on your face!” She cackles. “You _actually_ thought I was going to let you get eaten.”

With an impatient scream around the knotted rope and a wide-eyed glance down at your legs, you do your best to convey without words that she is, currently, letting you get eaten. She tuts as if you’re being particularly demanding.

“Alright, alright, keep your knickers on.” The woman in the robe returns with the device and tentatively offers it to Missy, who inspects it with practiced disinterest before throwing you a wink. “Figuratively speaking, of course. Bit, uh, breezy, under that dress, isn’t it?”

The thing in her hand emits a sharp whine and the snake, shrinking back from the sound, releases you immediately. It turns tail and slithers back towards the hole in the ground with surprising haste. Missy watches with undisguised glee.

“That’s right, off you go, big boy. If _anybody_ gets to eat my pet alive, it’s going to be me.”

When the sonic whirs and your bonds unravel, the echoing thud of your head hitting the stone floor is actually a blessed relief from having to look at her face.

Your jaws - no longer propped open with the rope gag - clench painfully on impact and you roll onto your stomach, rubbing at the bump on the back of your head. Your furious words are weakened by blood loss and a dry mouth. “Did you have to _cut me_?!”

“Don’t spoil the moment, dear.” A strong hand loops around your bicep, palm swiftly growing tacky with the blood that soaks your skin, and hauls you to your feet without consideration for the wound she’s pressing on. “Do you know what kind of technology it takes to repel a _demigod_?”

When you shake your head she grins, holding up the strange device for you to see. Her eyes glint in the low light of the cave.

“Neither do I. Let’s go and find out.”


	11. No. 11 - Defiance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How to train your companion. Lesson two - hand-to-hand combat.

“Oh, for- put your hands down, poppet. You look ridiculous.”

Unimpressed, Missy crosses her arms and raises an impatient eyebrow. You reluctantly lower your fists. The poor facsimile of a boxing stance that you’ve adopted withers under her gaze. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Well, I find that the _most_ important thing is to have fun and be yourself.” She closes the distance between you, eyeing you with obvious amusement when you twitch at her movements. “Just _have at it_. Try and hit me.”

“Um,” you glance down at your hands and then back to her face, the mask of indifference that she wears. “Are you sure?”

She sighs. “ _Yes_ , I’m sure, and _no_ ,” she holds up a hand before you can speak, “it’s not a trick. You need to learn how to defend yourself. I won’t always be there to protect you, you know.“ Ignoring your incensed scoff, she shrugs off her coat and sets it aside, standing before you in her skirt and blouse. “So come on, chop chop. Hit me.”

“Okay, yeah.” You square your shoulders and take a deep breath. “I can do that. Just- anywhere?”

“Anywhere you like.” Arms hanging at her sides, she gestures with raised palms. “Let’s see those claws, pussycat.”

Biting back a scathing response, you pull back your right fist and aim for her jaw.

She stops you with a quick hand. Her palm absorbs the impact, her posture barely faltering. “No. _Not_ like that.”

“Then _how_?” You drop your shoulders and she keeps hold of your fist. “I don’t understand what I’m doing, here.”

“Evidently not.” Pushing your hand away with such force that you stumble back a step, she shakes her head. “This isn’t a schoolyard _brawl_ , pet.” She rolls the words around her tongue with obvious distaste. “You’re fighting for your _life_. You need to hit first, hit _fast_ and hit _dirty.”_ As she speaks she moves closer, leaving barely a foot of space between your bodies. Something about her nearness makes your pulse race. “You don’t have the strength, the speed or the experience to win a clean fight. You have one weapon, and _only_ one, you understand?”

“And what’s that?” It comes out breathier and less sharp than you’d hoped.

“ _Surprise_.” She flashes a poisonous smile. “Come from the back if you get the chance. Go for the eyes, the throat, anything that looks _soft_. Bite. Scratch. _Defy my expectations_ , my dear, because they are _pitifully_ low.”

Jaw clenching with disdain, you follow her advice.

With clawed fingers you reach for her hair and she catches your wrist halfway to her temple. She laughs. Your left hand shoots out for her throat and she spots that, too, tugging you against her with her grip on both wrists until you’re chest to chest.

She cocks her head and for a single, perplexing second you expect her to kiss you.

Before your senses return to you she pushes you away and spins you around, pinning your crossed forearms to your chest. Your back is pulled tight against her. Panting with exertion, you try to wrench yourself from her grasp, to no avail.

“Are you even _trying_?”

Close at your ear, her voice drips with disappointment. There’s no indication that she’s expended any energy at all.

“You think so _loudly_. It’s like you’re announcing every move before you make it.”

Her arms tighten, crushing your chest painfully. It’s hard to think when she’s almost cheek to cheek with you. When you look down in an effort to create some distance, the motion triggers something _instinctual_ that you never quite realised was there before.

With all the speed you can muster, you lift your head and slam the back of your skull into her face.

She lets go of you and staggers back with a stunned cry. You scramble to get as far out of reach as possible before looking back at her.

Faintly orange-tinted blood leaks through her fingers where she presses a hand to her nose. She regards you with an odd sort of appreciation and, when she wipes her nose on the back of her hand and stains the pale skin there with dark orange, you see that she’s grinning. A drop of blood snakes over her curled upper lip and onto her teeth.

“ _Very_ good.” You back away when she starts to approach. “My turn, now.”

No sooner do you feel a wall at your back than she’s upon you, a strong hand fisting in your hair. She tugs your head sharply to the side and you cry out, reaching up to try and free her fingers from your scalp. With a scoff she pushes you forwards and you fall crashing to your knees.

Emboldened by the pain of the impact, you loop an arm around her ankle and try to tug her down with you. She’s immovable. Her other foot lands in your side with enough force to wind you and sends you sprawling on your stomach, palms flat to the floor as you try to keep your face from striking the ground.

“I’m sorry, Missy!” Struggling to catch your breath, you look up at her with wide eyes. “I wasn’t- I didn’t mean-”

“Nonsense.” She pulls a handkerchief from her inside pocket and begins to clean the blood from under her nose. “You’re a quick learner, I’ll give you that.” Eyeing your prone body, she chuckles bitterly. “Not quick enough, though.”

With a flash of black leather and purple wool so quick you scarcely see it, she stamps, full force, on your hand.


	12. No. 12 - Broken Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After lesson two, Missy tends to her pet.

“Oh, _do_ stop snivelling, poppet.”

Batting at your streaming eyes with your good hand, you shoot Missy the most scathing look you can manage. Her back is turned anyway. She crouches at a cupboard on the other side of the medical bay, rummaging through its contents. “You broke my _finger_.”

“Exactly. Only one. I was being generous.” She straightens up, having retrieved what she was looking for. “Middle finger, clean break, non-dominanthand. I really couldn’t have been any kinder about it.”

“Excuse me if I’m being _ungrateful_ ,” you snap, but it’s weakened by the tears in your throat. You risk another glance down at the injury. The broken finger is heavily swollen, a furious shade of purple. As long as you hold it still and cradle your hand in your lap, the pain remains at a steady, toothache sort of throb.

The sound of her boots on the tiles drags you back to the last time you were in this room. Your healed stitches itch with nostalgia.

“Alright, lift your hand up, let me see.” Cold and insistent fingers wrap around your wrist before you have time to respond, tugging your hand free of its protective position until your elbow is propped against your knee and your palm is facing you. It sends a bolt of grinding pain through your hand and you set your jaw, turning your face away so that you don’t have to see the awkward angle at which your grotesquely bulging finger stands. “Oh, it’s _fine_. Can you bend it?”

“Not without it _hurting_ -”

“I didn’t ask if it _hurt_ , I asked if you could _bend_ it.” Her other hand hovers above it, the tip of her index finger applying the lightest pressure on the bruised knuckle. “Or would you like me to try?”

Too quickly, you bend your finger down towards your palm. The pain is breathtaking. As you straighten it again, your free hand comes up to muffle your cry. Missy chuckles, softly, not unkindly.

“Well, I don’t doubt that it’s _sore,_ poppet, but it’s nothing that won’t heal in a few weeks. It just needs taping up.” Releasing your wrist, she reaches for the spoils of her search in the cupboard. “Keep still.”

A flash of metal in the corner of your eye makes you look back at her, at the queasy sight of your injured hand. “What’s that for?”

“What, this?” She brandishes the syringe. “I _assumed_ you’d rather not feel it when I yank that bone into place, but if you’d prefer to go medieval then that’s fine with me.”

“No! No, um,” you offer her a weak smile. “That would be good. Thank you. I just didn’t expect it, after…” Trailing off, you shrug.

She raises an eyebrow. “I told you.” The scratch and sting of the needle going in is, bizarrely, a welcome distraction from the dull, pulsating pain radiating from the fracture. “If you hadn’t made me so _cross_ , I would have given you something for the pain.”

“Does that mean you’re not cross now?” Cool, burning anaesthetic floods the muscle at the base of your finger and makes you shiver. “Even though I- you know-”

“You did well today.” She withdraws the syringe and sets it aside. “You actually surprised me. That was good, but _this_ ,” she flicks your finger, sending shuddering pain along the length of it. You wince but don’t look away. “This is the lesson.”

“So what does that mean?” Slowly, the nerves begin to deaden, swallowing the pain with numbness. Missy regards you carefully, an impenetrable look on her face.

“It means that surprise isn’t enough.” This time, when she pokes at the swelling, it’s only faintly unpleasant. “You hit me _once_ and you panicked. Panic gets you killed. You need to remember that.”

“Yeah, alright.” There’s something akin to tenderness in the way she manipulates your broken finger, tugging it straight and bracing it against its neighbour while she tapes them together. “I will.”


	13. No. 13 - Delayed Drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How to train your companion. Lesson three - endurance.

“Twenty-three seconds?”

Missy’s voice is laden with disappointment as she drawls out the count. Her face is pressed close to yours, cheek to clammy cheek.

“I’m sorry, Missy.” You can scarcely get the words out through your chattering teeth, chest heaving desperately as you try to drag in a breath. “I’m sorry. It’s so cold.”

She tugs on your hair until you cry out and her lips curl back in a snarl. “Would you prefer _hot_ water?”

“No, no, please-”

“Because that can be arranged.”

“No!” Your hands tremble where they clutch at the edge of the barrel. The metal is slick and icy, turning your fingers numb. “No, Missy, you’re right. You’re right. I’m sorry. This is good.”

“Good girl.” She presses a soft kiss to the drenched hair at your temple. Her lips feel scalding. “Now, let’s try and break a minute this time. Put your _back_ into it.”

“Yes, Missy.”

“On three.” 

You close your eyes as your face is pushed towards the dark water.

“One.”

You draw a slow breath, fighting to keep it steady. Frigid water kisses the tip of your nose.

“Two.”

Your grip tightens on the rim of the barrel until it digs into your palms.

There is no _three_.

The shock of breaking the surface makes your chest hurt. Sharp spasms tug at you from within, urging you to open your mouth, to haul stinging saltwater into your lungs. Instinctively you try to lift your head but Missy’s strong hand keeps you down, the turbulent water licking at your ears, filling them with loud _pop_ sas the air escapes until all you can hear is your heartbeat.

_Don’t count_ , you remind yourself when your fingers begin to tap out the seconds. _Counting makes you panic. Don’t panic_.

A cloud of bubbles streams from the corner of your mouth and tickles your cheek.

The cold is sinking into your muscles. What starts as a blazing pain like frostbite slowly fades, the chill spreading deeper, making your cheeks cramp and your head ache. Salt burns your skin.

Another involuntary jerk of your neck goes unheeded.

The pressure in your chest is crushing. You exhale again, too much, more than you mean to. You’re running out of air too soon.

_How long?_

_Don’t count._

_Don’t panic._

Your hand slides down the outside of the barrel, palm flush to the metal. It’s rough. Rusty.

The last of your oxygen rushes from your nose and rises to the surface.

You hold on for as long as you can but with nothing left in your lungs it’s harder. Water pushes at your nostrils. Pain shoots through your temple.

You slam your hand against the barrel. Once, twice, three times. It’s hard enough to hurt, the agreed signal for her to pull you back up.

She doesn’t.

Thinking she might not have heard - you can’t tell how loud it was, the icy water flooding your ears, your own pulse deafening in the freezing dark - you try again. Three times, each one stinging your palm from the cold and the sharp, jagged rust.

Nothing happens.

_Panic._

You struggle under her hand, shifting your feet around on the wet ground to try and gain more purchase, but every effort to pull yourself up is futile. Your shoulders and back ache with the strain. Her hand doesn’t move an inch.

Letting go of the barrel you reach back blindly, clawing at her wrist with numb fingers, scrabbling to release her grip on your hair. She doesn’t even twitch under the assault.

You open your mouth and freezing brine rushes in.

The force makes you gag, and gagging makes you _breathe_ , and now cold salt stings your throat, your sinuses, your lungs. The pain is exquisite. You open your eyes, hardly noticing the way the saltwater irritates them, but the dark is just as unforgiving as blindness had been. Every nerve in your body is screaming.

The warm air of the room burns your face.

You cough and splutter, choking out mouthfuls of bitter saltwater. It streams from your nose. Soothing tears well in your eyes and run, liquid fire, down your cold-numbed cheeks.

“Much better.” Missy pats your back roughly, helping you to cough up the last of the water. Her eyes are fixed on the pocket watch. “Sixty-eight seconds, that time. You just needed a little extra push.”

“You _said_ ,” you barely manage to gasp, wiping at your face with the back of one hand, “you said you’d _stop_ if I-”

“Oh, don’t be so sulky, poppet. I’m _pleased_ with you. Look, see?” She turns your face towards her with her knuckles under your chin and smiles brightly. “You did very well. I think you deserve a break now.”

Shoulders dropping as the tension drains away, you breathe, “thank you, Missy.” She strokes your wet hair and nuzzles your cheek.

“If you can make it to _two_ minutes, I’ll give you a treat.”


	14. No. 14 - Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hot toddy by the fire after lesson three.

A fire crackles in the library hearth.

Cross-legged on the Persian rug, you warm your hands over the flames. The palm of your good hand is scratched from the surface of the rusty barrel. As the cold and damp slowly drains from your bones, the throbbing pain in your injured finger - no longer bruised, but still taped to its neighbour - begins to ease.

“Drink this.”

With her footsteps muffled by the rug you hadn’t realised that Missy was so close at your side. You look up from the fire and find her proffering a china mug. There’s a faint pink mark on the back of her manicured hand where you clawed at it earlier. When you take the cup from her, the sweet-spicy smell makes your parched mouth water.

“What is it?” You glance suspiciously at the contents, the cloves and sliced lemon sitting at the bottom of steaming amber warmth. She chuckles, wry and humourless.

“I haven’t poisoned it. Drink up. It’ll help.”

Charting the strange softness in her eyes, you do as she says. The taste of salt is finally washed from your tongue. Sweet honey soothes your throat and bitter whiskey sends heat pooling in your cheeks, your limbs, your stomach. She’s right; it does help.

You clear your throat and find that your voice is less rough. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Setting the cup down on the mantel, she leaves you by the fire and takes a seat in a leather armchair nearby. You watch her over your shoulder. When she makes no effort to speak, folding her hands in her lap and fixing her gaze on the dancing flames, you turn back to the hearth.

A long moment of silence passes.

“Say it.” The usual malicious indifference is absent from her tone. Before you can look back and ask what she means, she adds, “I can hear the cogs grinding in your brain. Whatever it is, just say it.”

Despite the words her voice isn’t cruel. If anything, she sounds curious.

Pushing your salt-stiff hair back from your face, you lean closer to the fire until it prickles your skin with heat that borders on discomfort. “I feel like I disappointed you today.”

“Hmm.” Impenetrable; she gives nothing away. “Why do you think that?”

“I don’t know.” Smoke dries out your eyes and makes them itch. “I never managed two minutes in the water. I know you wanted me to.”

“Touch the fire.”

So unexpected is the command that your head whips around, too quickly, a lock of hair encrusted with salt slashing across your forehead and stinging the heat-sensitive skin there. Missy is leaning forward in her chair, eyeing you carefully. “Why?”

“Because I’m telling you to.” She gestures to the fireplace. “Touch the fire.”

“I don’t-” your eyes dart between her face and the tall flames. “I don’t want to.”

“Of course you don’t.” A smile tugs at her lips, almost kind. “Do it anyway.”

Your fingers twitch at the thought, and you look up at her, the firelight dancing on her face and reflecting gold and white in her eyes. A strand of hair falls loose at her temple. You shift a little bit further away from the hearth. The seat of the fire suddenly feels much closer, much _hotter_ , much more dangerous. The movement brings you nearer to her.

With the fire at your back and her seated in front of you, you struggle to find something safe to look at. Twisting awkwardly you study the bookshelves to your left, firelight warming one side of your body and her gaze freezing the other.

“I won’t make you.” Leather creaks as she sits back in the chair. You steadfastly keep your eyes trained on the shelves. “I could. You know that I could.” Mouth dry, you nod jerkily. “But I won’t. If you don’t do it, I won’t force you.”

“Okay.” You tug at the neckline of your shirt, which feels starched and itchy from the salt dried into it.

“I would be pleased, if you did.” Ignoring your sharp intake of breath, she continues. “I know you want to please me.”

It’s not a question - a small mercy for which you’re grateful, since you don’t need to answer.

“Touch the fire. Do it for me. Make me _happy.”_

Before you realise that you’ve made a decision you’re rising to your knees, inching closer to the fireplace once more. You reach out with your good hand.

Warmth on your fingers slowly turns to uncomfortable heat as they near the flames. Missy spots your hesitance.

“Are you scared?”

“Yes.” There’s a waver in your voice that you can’t conceal. “Yes, I’m scared.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because-” such a bizarre question, it gives you pause. “Because it’ll hurt.”

“It will,” she agrees softly. “Do it anyway.“

You drop your eyes from the fire, staring into the pattern on the rug. Wincing in anticipation, you whisper, “yes, Missy.”

Blazing pain licks at your fingers. You pull your hand away with a yelp and lift it to your face but she’s upon you in an instant, standing over you, stopping the instinctual movement of your burned fingers into your mouth.

“Good girl.” With one hand tight on your wrist she ghosts her fingertips over the burn and shows it to you, pink and shiny, glistening in the firelight. It feels tight. “You see? That wasn’t so bad.”

“Missy-” you tug at her grip, feeling tears sting at your eyes. Slowly, as if in a dream, she bends and bows her dark head and presses her lips to the mark. The heat of the kiss does little to soothe the pain.

When she releases your hand it lingers there for a moment, raised as if in offering. Smiling, she tips your chin up, watching with obvious reverence as the first tear streaks down your face. “You don’t disappoint me, poppet.”

She turns away in a flurry of violet and leaves you there on the floor, staring at the burn that you have, for all intents and purposes, willingly inflicted upon yourself.

Not looking back, she reminds you, in good humour, “if you did, I would have killed you by now.”


	15. No. 15 - Possession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your first foray into psychic communication.

“What do I do?”

“First of all, if you could stop panicking, that would help _immensely_.” Missy scowls at you across the table. “I’m going to have to feel that, too, you know.”

“I can’t exactly help it, can I?” You gesture wildly with your hands, indicating your temples. “I’ve never had anybody else in my brain before.”

“I’ll be gentle.” Her voice is deadpan. When you keep fidgeting, not reassured, she sighs and softens. “You’ll be fine. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“I feel like there’s probably quite a _lot_ to worry about.”

“This isn’t some mad _whim_ of mine, do you understand?” Her eyes flash dangerously and you nod, rendered silent by the sharpness in her voice. “This is something that we _have_ to do. We won’t be able to speak once we leave the TARDIS, so unless you plan on communicating by _blinking_ , this is the only way.”

“I know. I know. I just-” You scrub a hand over your face, if only to give you a moment of peace from the way she’s looking at you. “Will it hurt?”

“You, or me?”

The question takes you by surprise and you freeze, peering at her through your fingers. “ _Does_ it hurt, for you?”

She smiles, warm but menacing, all teeth. “No, poppet. But it’s very sweet of you to ask.” Taking your hand in hers, she guides it away from your face and sets it down on the cool surface of the table. “Forming the link is difficult, for your species, but you’ll be alright.” Her thumb brushes across the healing burn mark, setting it alight with tingling discomfort. “You’ve had worse.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Clearing your throat, you take your hand back and lock your fingers together. “Do I just- let you do it?”

“That’s all you have to do.” She beckons you with a curl of her fingers. “Closer.”

Bracing your forearms on the table, you shift nearer in your seat, leaning towards her. Your eyes drop to the wood grain. She settles her elbows either side of your wringing hands and presses the tips of two fingers to each temple.

Something sparks at the touch, like a static shock. You inhale sharply.

“Try and relax.” There seems to be a faint echo to her voice now, like it’s inside and outside at the same time. Tension begins to present itself under her fingers, a tightness as if your jaw was clenched or your neck was bent at an awkward angle. “I’m coming in either way but it’ll be easier if you don’t fight it.”

Closing your eyes, you offer her the smallest nod.

The tension spreads, circling the outside of your skull until it feels as if your head were in a vice. Your breathing falters. White-knuckled, you squeeze your hands together tightly. Every heartbeat sends great, roaring rushes of blood through your ears, drowning out the hum of the TARDIS engines.

Pain blooms deeper.

It’s hot and sharp as a knife wound behind your eyes. You wince, your face twisted in furious protest, and Missy notices.

“Stop resisting.” Her fingers push deeper into your temples, massaging the tight muscle there. “Open your eyes. Relax your jaw. Let it happen.”

With tremendous effort you do as she says. You focus on the curve of her elbow on the table, the pattern of her floral blouse, staring into it and trying to distract yourself from the squirming force of her working her way inside your skull. Opening your mouth to keep your teeth from clenching, you count your own heavy, shuddering breaths.

“Better. Almost there.”

Shooting pain grips you.

It rockets through your head and down your spine, making your shoulders jerk. Mindless, desperate noises stream from you. The aching strength with which you crush your own fingers against themselves is lost, _all_ sensation is lost but for the agony that contorts you in your seat, your head falling forwards into her hands until she’s all that supports you, all that keeps your face from striking the table. Darkness encroaches at the edge of your vision.

And then _light_.

Blinding light, violet, all-consuming.

Writhing and burning and blotting out your consciousness, pain like death, numbness like death, it yanks you from your body and leaves you senseless in the void.

**_You’re alright._ **

Dimly, you’re aware of her voice.

**_It’s almost over._ **

**_Is it?_** You call into the emptiness and somehow, somewhere, she hears you.

**_It is. This is the worst part. It won’t last long._ **

Your _hands_ hurt.

It’s the first thing that comes back and before you realise you can do it you’re pulling them apart, pressing your palms down against the table as the throbbing pain slowly fades from your injured fingers.

Your face is cold, and wet, and _sticky_.

Gasping when awareness returns to you, you wipe the tears from your cheeks with trembling hands. “Is that it? Are we done?”

“We’re done. We’re ready to go.”

You sit up, rolling your neck to ease some of the tension there. “So, what, how does-”

**_If I just think, can you hear it?_ **

**_I could always hear it; you’re hardly an enigma. It’s just a lot clearer now._ **

Her voice sounds different on the inside. You can’t put your finger on _how_ , but you know that it’s not the same.

“This is _very_ strange.”

“But useful.” She stands up and makes for the doors, waiting for you to follow. “If you could try not to think anything too annoying, I would appreciate it.”

You scoff, clearing the last of the moisture from your eyes. The residual soreness in your head seems to be fading. “I can’t _control_ my thoughts.”

“I would strongly advise you to try. Chop chop, now. We’ve got some _havoc_ to wreak.”


	16. No. 16 - Shoot The Hostage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a stranger in the TARDIS, and she seems to be getting under Missy's skin.

When the TARDIS doors open, Missy isn’t alone.

Perched on the stairs of the console room you jump at the sight of the strange woman she’s with. You’ve never had a _guest_ before.

She’s taller than Missy - not by much; just enough that you notice it - and just as well-dressed, in pinstriped trousers and a frilled blouse. Her face crumples at the sight of you. Despite not recognising her, as such, there’s something oddly familiar in the way that she cocks her head to look at you better. The movement makes you feel exposed and you shrink away, climbing one step higher and further from the doors.

“Oh, you _poor_ thing,” she half cries, and the sound of her voice makes your bones ache. “Are you alright?”

“She’s fine,” Missy answers brusquely, before you even have chance to process that she’s shutting the doors and letting the stranger move deeper into the room. “This is my _companion_.”

“She is _not_ your companion, Missy,” the woman warns, turning away from you to meet her eyes. “This isn’t how the Doctor does it. You know that.”

“Well, it’s how _I_ do it.” Busying herself at the console, she throws you a glance that sends your heart racing. “We have fun, don’t we, poppet?”

“You mean, _you_ have fun.” The stranger folds her arms, unimpressed, but Missy doesn’t even twitch.

“I do. And that means that _you_ , dear Lumiat, had fun as well.” She grins without humour, all teeth. “Or is that another part you conveniently forgot?”

“Oh, Missy.” Looking over her shoulder at you, the other woman smiles sadly. It doesn’t meet her eyes. Completely lost by the exchange, you duck your head to avoid her gaze. “We never forgot her.” Being relegated to the past tense like this makes your breath hitch.

Missy bristles. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Her voice is whip-thin, and you wince.

“I think you _know_ what it means.” The stranger - the Lumiat - moves closer, invading the space Missy’s created around herself, fixing her with a piercing look that actually seems to make your captor falter. “You just haven’t admitted it to yourself yet. But you will.”

She snarls, her upper lip curling with that familiar contempt. “Will I?”

For a moment, an uneasy silence falls.

Missy breaks it with a low chuckle and a snap of her delicate fingers. “Heel, pet.”

“She’s not an _animal_ ,” the Lumiat chides, even as you rise to your feet and slowly cross the room to stand at Missy’s shoulder. The position puts you in the Lumiat’s line of sight and she offers you an encouraging smile. You look away swiftly. Meeting her eyes makes your chest hurt. “You don’t have to do what she tells you to, sweetheart.”

“She knows who her _Mistress_ is. Don’t you, dearest?”

Swallowing hard to soothe the lump rising in your throat, you manage, “yes, Missy.”

“Good girl.” A hand brushes across your shoulder, so lightly that you might have imagined it. “On your knees.”

You do as she says. Above you, the Lumiat recoils. “Missy, _don’t_ -”

“I am getting _sick to death_ of the sound of my own voice.” The pointed tip of her umbrella pushes into the back of your neck, nudging the implant there. It’s sharp and uncomfortable and you make a choked noise of surprise. “The cryptic act isn’t helping, either.”

“Whatever it is that you _think_ -”

“I want some _answers_ ,” she snaps, digging the umbrella in until you cry out. “And if you don’t give them to me, I _will_ kill her.”


	17. No. 17 - Dirty Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lumiat says her piece.

“You and I both know that the sonic doesn’t work on organic matter.”

“You and I both know that it doesn’t _need_ to.” The point of the umbrella twists deeper, digging into the scar at the nape of your neck. You cry out, folding your hands in front of your face, bowing deeper to the ground to try and ease the pressure. “She’s wired up with nano-tech. Overload that and it’s _goodnight, Vienna_. Quite painful, I’m afraid.”

“Please,” you croak hoarsely, half-hoping they don’t hear you. “Please don’t.”

“This is _just_ like you, Missy.” The Lumiat’s voice drips with disappointment. She sounds like she’s speaking to a sulky child. “Breaking your own toy just to upset me? You’ll never find another one like her.”

“I didn’t _find_ her.” Something _gives_ in Missy’s tone and she speaks with breathy excitement. “I made her.”

“Did you? Are you sure?”

“I don’t think you really understand what’s _happening_ here.” Missy’s boot lands in your back, pushing you further down until you’re doubled over on your knees. You stick your knuckles in your mouth to muffle a sob. “ _My_ hostage, _my_ weapon, _my_ questions.”

“Hostage?” The Lumiat steps closer, until her patent brogues are in your line of sight. “I thought she was a companion.”

Above you, you can almost hear Missy sneering. “Nobody likes a smart-arse, dear.”

“Makes you feel stupid, does it?”

“That’s _enough_!” She forces you deeper until your chest almost touches the floor, the muscles in your back, your thighs, straining and trembling under the weight of her. Your breaths come short and sharp. “Never mind the sodding implant, I’ll snap this creature in half with my bare hands if you don’t start _talking_.” Tears of horror burning in your eyes, you bite back another whine.

“I thought we were talking.” She moves closer still, her shadow falling across your hunched back.

Missy ignores her. “Where did you come from?”

“From you. You know that. You built an Elysian field.”

“So you keep saying.”

“You did. When the time came. When it was too much. When you looked into the mirror and-”

“-And _despaired_ at what I’d become,” she snarls. “I heard you the first time. What _happened_? What am I supposed to have _done_?”

“Oh, _Missy_.” 

The Lumiat’s voice is heavy. The pressure of the tip of the umbrella in your neck eases slightly when she reaches out and grasps the handle, covering Missy’s trembling hand with her own. You sigh with faint relief, relaxing the barest amount. 

“Do you really not know?”


	18. No. 18 - Panic Attacks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head in the console room.

Silence falls around you like a shroud.

Beneath the crushing weight of it you barely even notice when Missy’s boot lifts from your back, the umbrella clattering to the ground beside you. You hold your breath, hardly daring to move at all, fearing that the smallest attempt to rise, to look up at them, will light the tinder that suddenly fills the air.

“You’re lying.” There’s an odd sort of softness to her voice when Missy finally speaks. You twitch at the sound. “That’s it? That’s all that’s supposed to turn me into- into _that_?”

“What did you think would happen?” The Lumiat doesn’t follow when Missy backs away; she stands, still towering over you, close enough that you could grasp and cling to her legs. The desire is there, inexplicable. “The day you go too far. The day you do what you can’t undo. How did you think it would feel?”

“I don’t think it would feel like anything.” You can picture the way her brows draw inwards, the inflection in her tone all confusion, the softness unfamiliar.

“You don’t think it will hurt?”

Teeth gritted, she hardens. “Why would it?”

“Hmm.” The Lumiat chuckles above you, and _that_ , that _is_ familiar. The sound is different but the burn on your hand itches and you would know, anywhere, that feeling. You would recognise Missy’s wry laugh no matter what body it came from. “One of us is lying, Missy. Can you tell which one?”

She crouches, her heels lifting from the ground in front of you, and you twitch when a hand strokes lightly through your hair. “It’s alright, sweetheart. Up you get.”

You shake your head, breathing harsh into your palms where they clasp over your mouth, but she loops her hands beneath your underarms and tugs you gently, but firmly, back up onto your knees. With light fingers on your wrists she moves your hands away and clasps them between her own.

“I’ve _missed_ you,” she whispers, squeezing your hands gently. “I thought about you every day.”

“She’s never _met_ you,” Missy snaps.

The Lumiat smiles, her eyes soft, hypnotic. You can’t look away even as she leans closer. “I’m in there, somewhere. You know that. One day you’ll see.”

You nod, the lump in your throat back with a vengeance. You don’t understand _how_ but you think that you’ve already seen her.

“Alright then, Missy,” the Lumiat calls, straightening up and letting go of your hands. You wring them together, wishing she would touch you again. She doesn’t. She picks up the umbrella from the ground and holds it out to Missy over your shoulder. “You win. Kill her.”

Panic floods your chest like cold water.

Breath catching, you twist to look over your shoulder when Missy takes the proffered umbrella. “Please,” you manage weakly, feeling tears mark hot tracks down your face. “Please don’t, Missy, please-”

“Turn around.” Her voice is hard.

“I’ll be good, I promise, I’ll do anything you want me to, just please _don’t_ -”

“I said _turn around_!” Startled by her shout, you do as she says, dropping your chin back to your chest and covering your mouth with trembling hands. She’s never raised her voice to you like this before; the control is gone, leaving behind only something that you think is pain. It’s hard to tell. “And stop _whining_. Why do humans never take it with grace?”

“Will you?” The Lumiat speaks like a finger pushed into a bruise. “When you step into that field and it tears you apart, atom by atom, will you take it with grace?”

Missy scoffs, but it’s unsteady. “You tell me.”

“Whose name do you think you’ll call when it happens, Missy?” Unfaltering, she pushes deeper. “While you still have a voice, while you still have a _tongue_ , who do you think you’ll cry out for? What will be the last thing that goes through your mind before it falls to pieces?”

“Hopefully _not_ you.”

“No. Not me.” That soft, bitter chuckle again. “Not the Doctor, either. But someone.”

“I doubt that.” The back of your neck prickles and you know she’s taking aim.

“Everybody calls for someone. Go on.” She gestures to the umbrella. “Kill her. Burn her up, from the inside. It’s not quite the same as an Elysian field but it’s close enough, every nerve, every cell set alight. It’ll take longer than you expect. She’ll have time to scream. Who do you think _she’ll_ call for?”

You can’t bite back a shriek when the sonic umbrella whirrs to life behind you. Eyes clenched tight, you wait for the promised agony.

It doesn’t come.

The Lumiat disappears with a cry and a sound like time swallowing itself.


	19. No. 19 - Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lumiat is gone - but what has she left behind?

You stare at the space where the Lumiat had stood for what seems like an age.

There’s a faint crackle of electricity in the air, static like from the surface of a cathode ray television. It makes the fine hairs on your face and neck stand on end. Before you realise that you’re doing it, you reach out into the empty air in front of you. The skin of your palm prickles.

“I didn’t kill her.”

Missy’s voice is low, bitter; heavy with displeasure.

“Vortex manipulator on her right wrist. Just sent her back to where she came from.”

“She came from you,” you barely whisper, more to yourself than to her. “How is that possible?”

“It’s not.” The umbrella drops to the ground, and the clanging sound that reverberates through the wire mesh floor of the console room makes you jump. “Ignore her.”

“She was-”

“She was _nothing_.” You almost miss the way her words crack under the weight of tears. Almost.

You turn to look at her, moving unsteadily, still on your knees, and she brushes past you, steadfastly refusing to meet your eyes. You swallow hard and address her back as she retreats. “Are you alright, Mistress?”

With a barked laugh that does nothing to disguise the fact that she’s _crying_ , Missy makes her way up the stairs. There’s a careful measure to her steps like she’s actively trying not to run.

“Can I help?”

She falters. For a moment she stands still, her hand poised near the bannister, and you feel an incomprehensible urge to go to her; and then she wraps white-knuckled fingers around the handrail and continues her ascent.

“Eight seconds,” she says, aiming for casual and failing.

“Eight seconds?” You frown, finally taking the opportunity to bat away the tears still streaming down your face. As the adrenaline drops you start to shiver.

“To lose consciousness when the implant overloads.” She clears her throat. “You’ll feel it for eight seconds.”

The certainty in her words hits you like a bad prognosis and you nod, silent, trying not to dwell on the thought.

“How long do you think an Elysian field takes?”

Staring at the back of her coat, you will her to turn around. “I don’t know, Mistress.”

“No.” She heads for the corridor and leaves you there on your knees. “Neither do I.”


	20. No. 20 - Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The TARDIS shows her sentience.

The TARDIS has hidden your bedroom.

It’s not the first time she’s moved things around - you’ve taken to identifying rooms by their doors more than their positions - but the layout typically remains broadly similar. It’s never taken you more than a few minutes to find the place you’re looking for.

You don’t know how long you’ve been wandering these halls tonight, but it’s definitely longer than usual.

Every door you pass is unfamiliar. It’s always _dark_ in the corridors, the dim violet lights doing few favours where they’re set into black walls and floors, but now it feels oppressive. Shadows push at your eyes and ears, ghosting across every bit of bare skin, trailing over your face like cold fingers. Stricken with the sudden alarm that there is _something behind you_ you brace your palm against the wall and look over your shoulder.

The walls have moved.

Where previously the hall had been featureless, straight as a Roman road, now it curves sharply to the left. Your hand flies up to cover your mouth, horror twisting in your chest at the sight. The changeable geometry of the TARDIS has never felt quite this _alive_ before.

You start to walk faster.

It’s almost a jog, but not quite; even alone, even in these foreign depths of the ship, your pride won’t allow you to run from _nothing_. You’ve endured enough now to stop jumping at shadows.

So you remind yourself, under your breath, in a voice that trembles too much for your comfort.

The back of your neck itches where the tip of Missy’s umbrella had been pressed. You reach up to rub at the scar there, batting at the empty air behind you, pretending even to yourself that it’s a coincidental movement and not an attempt to prove that there is nothing following close at your back.

Cold fingers wrap around your wrist.

You shriek, your back slamming into the wall when you try to turn around and see what has hold of you. Missy’s pale face is blue and shadowy in the low light.

“You shouldn’t be down here.”

Her voice is low, her thin brows drawn tight. She cocks her head and eyes you carefully. She’s close - close enough that your shuddering breaths stir the strand of loose hair hanging by her jaw. You steady yourself with your free hand, pressing it to your heaving chest.

“I’m sorry.” In the close quarters your words are too loud. “I got lost.”

“No.” She frowns, and her grip tightens with her expression. “I mean, you shouldn’t be _able_ to be down here. You’re bio-locked out. The implant should be active.”

“Oh.” You duck your head and touch the scar again. “I just- I was going to bed, but- I ended up here.”

“And it doesn’t hurt.” It’s not a question. Tighter, still, either side of the joint in your wrist, her fingers clamp down with aching pressure. You wince. “You should have been knocked unconscious by now.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper again. “I- I’ll go, I didn’t mean to-”

“No.” She lets go so abruptly that you gasp, rubbing at the area where her hand had been. Her eyes flit down to watch you soothing yourself, and then lift back to your face. Her features don’t twitch. “No. We need to investigate that.”

“I won’t come here again.” You swallow hard, shrinking back from the look in her eyes; curious, faintly irritated, but with a glint of excitement. Like you’re a damaged machine. Something she can take apart and put back together. Something she can fix. “I promise.”

“You can’t promise that.” Missy steps closer, and when you go to move away you are reminded of the wall at your back, smooth and cold and black as onyx. Her chest - the coat is gone; she’s down to her blouse and skirt - almost touches yours. She reaches up, her cool fingers going behind your head to stroke the raised skin at the back of your neck. It’s a light touch that prickles your skin with goosebumps and drags a quiet noise from your throat. Her voice hardens. “I don’t appreciate being _lied_ to.”

“No.” You shake your head as much as the closeness will allow. “No, of course not, Mistress. I would never.”

“Never?” She frowns deeper. Her palm slides against the nape of your neck, and then she squeezes, dull pain radiating from where she grips you by the scruff. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip to stifle a cry. “You can’t promise that, either.”

“I’m sorry.” Tears sting your eyes, and you close them, heart racing. Your hands clench into fists at your sides. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Just tell me-” She cuts off, and her forehead, skin soft and cold, presses against your own. You twitch at the contact but her hold on your neck keeps you pinned between her and the wall. She chuckles to herself, humourless. The breath that carries it ghosts over your face. “Just say something nice.”

When you peek out through your lashes, her eyes are closed. There’s a sardonic half-smile on her lips. She’s taken her makeup off.

Bottom lip quivering, you murmur, “I’m yours, Mistress.”

She makes another low noise, not quite a laugh, not quite a whimper.

“Good girl.”


	21. No. 21 - I Don't Feel So Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The implant is tested.

It’s daylight outside the TARDIS.

The sight of it makes you flinch; to your mind, it’s after midnight, though the relevance of a numerical concept of time within the walls of the ship is debatable. All that you have for reference is the fatigue that weakens your limbs and your mind. Your body clock has more or less adapted to timelessness, but being abruptly pulled from it by shafts of bright sunlight streaming through the open doors is still disorientating.

“The field’s up.” Missy glances up from her work at the console. Her unmade face is pale and sallow in the strange lighting, the violet glow of the console overlaid by natural daylight. Vast shadows fall beneath her eyes and on her high cheekbones. She inclines her head towards the doors. “Alright, out you go. Proof, pudding, and all that.”

You nod shallowly, just enough to show that you’ve heard her. With one hand tight on the bannister you rise from your seat on the stairs. Light falls across your tired eyes and you shield them with your hand as you approach the doors.

She’s landed in a field somewhere. It looks like Earth - it _smells_ like Earth - but how would you know the difference? 

It’s a bright, cold day outside. The pale sky gives you the impression of early morning. For a single suffocating moment you’re reminded of _life_ , as it was before; of being awake with the sunrise after a long night of suffering or celebration and feeling, as you feel now, the touch of a new day on your face without the protective veil of sleep to soften it.

Has everything always been so _sharp_ out there?

“Do I just- try and leave?” You watch the fronds of a distant willow tree trembling in the bitter wind. Behind you, Missy makes an indecipherable noise low in her throat.

“Just walk outside.”

“Yeah. Alright.” You close your eyes and lift your chin to the cruel sun. “Just walk outside and see what happens.”

What happens, of course, is _pain_.

You’ve never tested the implant; you’ve never wanted to. Your experiences with the shock collar proved sufficient to sour you to the idea. That device was unpleasant, but its stinging bite around your neck could not hold a candle to this new horror.

Screaming pain like a dental drill to a nerve rockets down your spine. It contorts your body with it and you double over, crying out as you do, bracing your hand against the doorframe and leaning back into the console room until the implant is no longer outside of the field. Your ears buzz faintly and your mouth tastes of metal. Your hands are shaking.

“It still works, then.” She sounds disappointed; like she’d honestly thought this would be the answer to something. “Outside the TARDIS, anyway. Painful?”

It takes you a moment to realise she’s asking you a question. “Painful,” you agree through clenched teeth. Your back, your limbs, your neck all prickle with aftershocks and your breaths come short and sharp. “Yes.”

“Well.” There’s a trace of eagerness in her voice, but it’s undercut with frustration. “That’s one question answered. It’s not _completely_ broken.”

“No,” you mutter, batting at the tears in your eyes. You still lean heavily into the door.

“Something’s not right, though.” With a sigh, she cracks her neck so forcefully that you can hear it from ten feet away. “Looks like I’ll have to get my hands dirty after all.”


	22. No. 22 - Drugged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missy takes a closer look at the implant.

“Scream if you can feel it.”

Wincing in anticipation, you wind your fingers tightly into the sheets on the bed. There’s a dull pressure at the back of your neck and a vague sensation of _cold_ , and then Missy chuckles.

“Obviously not. You could say thank you, you know. I really did give you the _good_ stuff.”

Your words are muffled by the bed and thickened by the lethargy that grips you. “Thank you, Mistress.”

“You’re still a _bleeder_ , aren’t you?” Gauze, warm with your fresh blood, cleans the incision. It feels oddly pleasant. “Some things never change.”

Her voice isn’t sharp, but the words leave you feeling strangely embarrassed. It’s probably an effect of the anaesthetic; whatever she’s given you, delivered with an unceremonious jab of a needle to the nape of your neck, has you floating in a haze of semi-consciousness. “Sorry.”

“I’ll let you off.” More pressure, deeper this time, as she digs for the implant with an unseen tool. You can just feel the sharp point scratching the soft tissue and you make a small noise of discontent. She tuts. “Delicate work, poppet. Do try not to wriggle.”

“Feels weird,” you protest weakly, struggling not to react to the bizarre invasion.

“ _Weird_ is a step up from _agonising_ , isn’t it?” There’s a hint of reprimand in her tone. “This won’t take long. Pull it out, fix it, pop it back in, sew you up again.”

You scowl into the sheets. “I’m gonna look like a patchwork doll soon.”

Missy laughs, deep and genuine, like you’ve caught her off guard. It puts a sleepy smile on your face.

The expression is immediately wiped away by an electrifying jolt of pain. You cry out hoarsely, jerking under her hand, when it shoots down your spine as intensely as if she’d given you no anaesthetic at all.

“Oops,” she chimes, obvious pleasure in her voice. ”Touched a nerve.”

You whine as the pain slowly dissipates. “You did that on _purpose_.”

“If I wanted you unconscious I’d have knocked you out myself.” There’s a sickening _click_ of metal on metal inside the wound when instrument and implant meet. It doesn’t hurt, but it sets your teeth on edge. “There we are. Now, I’m afraid this bit really _is_ going to smart.”


	23. No. 23 - Exhaustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The TARDIS speaks up. (Sort of).

“It doesn’t make any _sense_.”

You frown, resisting the urge to rub at the fresh stitches under the bandage at the nape of your neck. “Isn’t it a good thing? If it’s not broken?”

“No, it’s not _good_ ,” Missy scowls, frustration thickening her accent. “If there’s nothing wrong with the implant, then why did the bio-lock fail?” She sets her teacup down with too much force, sloshing a few drops of oversweet tea over the lip of the patterned china. “I’m _missing_ something.”

As if it pains her to say the words, she pinches the bridge of her nose and bows her head. Firelight casts her downturned face in shadow.

You curl up tighter in the other armchair, struggling to keep your eyes open. It must be getting close to a full day since you last slept. The ordeal with the Lumiat, only a few hours past, feels like a distant dream, swallowed by the urgency with which Missy pursues this new problem like a restless tongue poking a sore tooth.

A loud _click_ of fingers in front of your face jolts you upright.

“Am I _boring_ you?” She sneers, drawing her slender hand back and propping her chin up on it. “Beginning to think I could have saved that anaesthetic for someone who deserved it more.”

“Sorry.” You wince, rubbing at your eyes. “Sorry, Mistress. Please carry on.”

She pouts. “It’s no fun if you’re not listening.”

“I am. I am, I promise, I-” you clap your hand to your mouth, eyes wide with horror as you stifle a sharp yawn. Missy scoffs.

“Fine. You’re no help anyway.” Kicking the leg of your chair sulkily, she snaps, “sod off to bed. I’ll figure it out myself.”

“I can’t,” you admit meekly. She raises her eyebrows but somehow manages to still look incredibly uninterested. “I can’t find my bedroom.”

To your surprise, she grins. “You are a _bad_ girl,” she calls, casting her eyes upwards to the ceiling. “Just like mummy. I know you like to torture the poor dear but-”

Something shifts in her expression.

“Hang on. Shut up.” She holds up her palm to silence you, even though you haven’t spoken. With narrowed eyes she glances back at you and asks, “what did you say?” 

Before you can respond, she says again, “no. _Shut_ up. A hundred and eight minutes ago, what did you say?”

You watch mutely as she stands up, shaking her head. “ _Stupid_ Missy,” she snarls, rubbing at her temples. “Stupid, stupid. _You_ ,” she raises her voice again, speaking to the TARDIS herself. “You are _not_ a bad girl. You are a very _naughty_ girl and you will _switch_ that bloody bio-lock back on this _instant_ or so help me I’ll gut you with a rusty spanner.”

The rosy lights of the library dim and flare. A soft warbling sound echoes from the walls; you still can’t really understand the TARDIS, but there’s no question as to whether or not she agrees with Missy. The flames in the hearth roar higher for a moment, the rush of heat and sound making you flinch.

“ _Right_.” Missy crosses her arms. “It’s like that, is it? Please yourself.”

Unsure of what to make of this display, you shrink further back into the chair. When Missy turns to look at you, you drop your eyes as if you’ve been caught eavesdropping. She huffs and throws up her hands in exasperation.

“I need to have a wee _word_ with my very-” here, she raises her voice theatrically, making sure that the TARDIS can hear her, “ _disobedient_ ship. You’ll have to sleep here tonight.”

Without waiting for a response she flounces through the door, slamming it behind her.


	24. Alt. 10 - Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You pass an uneasy night in the library.

_You’re running._

_It’s dark; too dark to see more than a few steps ahead of you. Only dim violet light illuminates your path. The walls are tight at your shoulders and they’re **warm** , warm like flesh, soft and wet and **pulsing** like flesh, pulsing to a four-beat rhythm that you think you recognise._

_The soles of your bare feet are slippery._

_The ground is uneven, knotted with twisted shapes like tree roots. The air is heavy with salt, thick with iron, so that you can taste it on your dry tongue as you pant for breath. When you stumble and steady your hand on the throbbing wall your palm comes away slick with blood that looks black in the light. You stare at it, confused._

_You think you’re looking for something._

_You don’t know what it is, but you’re sure, somewhere in the back of your howling skull, that when you find it, you’ll know._

_**It’s in there, somewhere. You know that. One day you’ll see.** _

_You wipe sweat from your brow and leave blood in its wake._

_Behind you, something is moving._

_The sound startles you from stillness._

_Whatever you’re looking for is looking for you._

_You start to move again but you’re slower now; like you’re swimming, like you’re drowning in salt. The further you travel, the warmer it gets._

_Something **wriggles** underneath you and your right foot slides out backwards, sending you crashing to your hands and knees in the scalding dark. The impact knocks the wind from your chest. Beneath your stomach the hot hot ground is squirming._

_**It’s alright, sweetheart.** _

_Cold breath on the back of your neck._

_**Up you get.** _

_A knee in the small of your back. A hand like ice around your bicep._

_When you scream, it doesn’t make a sound._


	25. No. 25 - Disorientation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You wake up confused, and Missy isn't helping.

Jerking in the pincer grip that woke you, you scrabble against the surface you’re lying on with sweaty palms and find only cool, smooth leather. Soft weight across your back makes you flinch. The taste of iron lingers in your mouth.

“Is this normal for you?”

You cry out in alarm at the sound of Missy’s voice above you. Twisting awkwardly, you find her standing over you, her fingers still tight around your bicep. She’s scowling.

“Seriously, is this always how it is when you sleep?”

Struggling to comprehend the words, you blink blearily. “I don’t-” it hurts to speak. You swallow hard, feeling thick warmth under your tongue. “Where am I?”

“Big question. Lots of answers.” She clicks her tongue. “The one you’re looking for is probably _the library_.”

“Right. Yes.” You cast your eyes down to the sofa you’re lying on, the thick tartan blanket strewn across your body and tangled between your legs, finally making sense of your surroundings. “Thanks.”

When you prop yourself up on one elbow she lets go of your arm. As you lift your face to her, properly now, she narrows her eyes. For the first time you feel the cold sweat on your back.

“You bit your tongue,” she says disapprovingly, as if you’ve done it on purpose.

Licking the roof of your mouth, you taste iron again _._ “Did I?”

You lift a hand to your mouth but she’s quicker than you. She takes hold of your jaw, crouching in front of you until your eyes meet. There’s something unfamiliar stirring in her expression, and you drop your gaze to her blouse to avoid it.

“Open up,” she commands, squeezing your jaw so that the pressure makes you do it anyway. When two of her cool fingertips press against the end of your tongue they bring sharp, stinging pain with them. She holds them up for you to see the thin coat of blood they’ve collected.

“Sorry.” You unsuccessfully try to shake off her grip. She doesn’t let go, but she does stop squeezing. “Think I had a nightmare.”

“I guessed as much.” Missy wipes your blood on the wool of her skirt, which is too dark to show the stain. “What about?”

The question takes you by surprise. It must show on your face, because she lets you go, scoffing as she straightens up.

“You’re right. I don’t care.” She smooths the creases from her blouse. “Come on. Up you get. Places to loot, people to eviscerate.”

You rub the sleep from your eyes and rise to your feet after her, frowning down at the tartan throw. It usually stays folded in a blanket chest near the fire and you don’t remember retrieving it before you fell asleep.


	26. No. 26 - Concussion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You bear the brunt of another adventure gone awry.

“Right. Perfect. God, this is _just like you_.”

You squint into the cold sunlight. It’s too bright, a startling white that sends shooting pain through your skull. With a choked noise of discomfort, you lift a hand to cover your eyes. Your face is wet.

“I stop paying attention to you for _two minutes_ and you get yourself knocked out by a bloody _Ogron_? Have you learned _nothing_?”

Missy’s boot lands in your side to punctuate the question.

It’s barely a kick, really; more of a nudge. Still, it drags your attention downwards from the pain in your head to the blooming discomfort where you’ve landed badly on a particularly unforgiving rock, and you cry out. Nausea makes itself known in the pit of your stomach.

“I hope you’re happy. Really, I _sincerely_ do because I, for one, am very, _very cross_.”

You sound as eloquent as you feel when, squeezing your eyes tighter against the thin light that pries at your shielding fingers, you groan, “my _head_.” Sharp pain radiates from the back of your skull, which rests on jagged stones that catch your hair and prick at your scalp.

“You should be grateful you still _have_ a head,” she snaps. “If I hadn’t turned around when I did that Ogron would be picking his teeth with pieces of your skull by now.”

Her tirade isn’t helping the dizziness, or the queasiness, and it certainly isn’t helping the pain. You weakly hold up your other hand in an attempt to quiet her, squeaking, “Missy…”

“You’ll be fine.” Her voice is a touch softer, but she still sounds thoroughly annoyed. “Just stay still for a minute and try not to pass out again. The TARDIS isn’t far.”

“Great,” you gasp hoarsely, feeling bile rise in your throat. “First, can I be sick?”

She scoffs and takes a sweeping step backwards. “Have at it.”

You do.


	27. Alt. 12 - Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of a run-in with an Ogron.

Leaning heavily against the counter, you rinse the bitter tang of bile from your mouth under the running tap. Your eyes are closed; partly against the light that still makes your skull feel like it’s about to split open, partly because every glimpse of your bloodied face in the mirror sends you into a new fit of wooziness. The taste of pennies is thick on your tongue.

“Alright, that’s enough.” Missy touches your arm, coaxing you into moving. “Let’s have a look at you.”

With a firm hand on your shoulder she tugs you back until you collapse onto the ottoman behind you. The sudden movement makes your temples throb, but sitting down comes as no small relief. With your elbows braced on your knees you lean forwards and carefully cradle your head in your hands, fingers turning tacky with blood.

“Normally they’d ask you if you know what year it is,” she says drily, “but in the time vortex I’m afraid that’s not a straightforward question.”

“I’m not _brain damaged_.” The words come out weaker than you’d hoped. “I got hit by an Ogron. I’m on the TARDIS. You’re Missy.”

“Three for three,” she observes, with a slight edge to her voice. “Could be worse. Look at me.”

Her fingers are under your chin before you can respond, tilting your head so that your face is no longer hidden. You wince, clamping your eyes tighter, as the pain flickers back to life.

She sighs heavily. “Open your eyes.”

“I’d rather not,” you protest meekly. “Doesn’t feel great.”

“Open your eyes or it’s about to get very Clockwork Orange in here.”

You do as she says, cautiously peeking out through lowered eyelids to acclimatise yourself. Somebody - whether it was Missy or the TARDIS herself - has dimmed the lights, and you let out a soft breath in relief as you open your eyes properly.

“There we are.” A strained smile spreads across her painted lips. “Can you see? I mean, as well as you humans ever _can_ see.”

“Think so.” You look left and right, feeling juddering pain shoot through your temples with the movement. It’s bearable. “Can I close them yet?”

“Not quite. Stay still. Look straight ahead.”

Looking straight ahead, while physically more comfortable, means staring directly between her startling blue eyes. You swallow hard and try not to watch them flitting across your face.

“Probably fine,” she mutters, mostly to herself. “Still need to check, though.”

Holding you steady, she fumbles in her coat pocket and retrieves a penlight. Your vision is quickly blotted out by a beam of blinding white light that makes you flinch and close your eyes. She chuckles.

“Well, your pupils contracted, so that’s good.” Patting your cheek lightly, she straightens up. “Minor head injury. You’ll live. Looks worse than it is.”

You fold a hand across your eyes again, waiting for the after-image of the penlight to fade. “Great. Thank you.”

“It’s fine.” Her voice is tight as she switches the tap back on. You frown at the sound. For a long moment, all you hear is the sink filling with warm water; then, quiet and sharp, she says, “you could have died today.”

“I could have died plenty of times,” you mutter, bristling at her tone. “Never bothered you before.”

“Hmm.” The question is flat; hollow. “Didn’t it?”

You freeze. Your fingers cease their futile rubbing of your temple and you carefully lift your head, eyeing the back of her coat.

“I didn’t think so.”

“No.” She looks down at the sink, busying her hands with a washcloth that she wets and wrings out aggressively. “No, neither did I.”


	28. Alt. 3 - Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some home truths.

You watch in silence while Missy shrugs off her jacket and rolls up the sleeves of her blouse, pushing the white cuffs to her elbows. The sight of her pale forearms makes your head swim almost as much as the concussion. With her back turned to you, she’s indecipherable, but the position does, at least, grant you the freedom to stare.

“I’m sorry,” you say eventually. Her shoulders twitch at your voice. “You know, for- for ruining the plan.”

“It’s fine,” she answers tightly, still not looking at you. “I’ll find another way. There are other planets, other power sources.”

“Yeah.” You wring your hands, frowning at the bloodstains there. “I’ll try not to get knocked out next time.”

“You will _not_ be coming with me.” 

Missy turns her fiery eyes on you at last. Shrinking back from the sharp edge in her voice, you feel another bolt of pain through your temples. For the first time you feel like she’s _too close_. Her skirts brush your knees when she twists around to face you.

“I didn’t spend _all this time_ teaching you how to survive, keeping you _safe_ just for-”

“Keeping me _safe_?” You wince at the volume of your own words, but she ignores them, speaking over the top of you.

“-just for you to get your _stupid human skull smashed in-”_

“You’ve _never_ kept me safe! You tortured me! You kept me _hostage_!”

“You are _no_ t-!” Her teeth flash like she’s ready to lunge for your throat and she lifts a hand to her face, the slender fingers fluttering where she covers her mouth, and turns her eyes down. After a moment, she tries again, quieter. “You are not a hostage.”

“Am I not?” Despite the fury burning your chest, there are tears weighing down your lashes. You bat uselessly at the moisture in your eyes with clenched fists. “Am I a companion, today, then?”

“No.” Missy scowls, hands going to straighten her jacket before she realises she’s taken it off already. Instead, she smooths down the front of her blouse. “No, that’s not right, either. You’re just…”

When she doesn’t finish you prompt, your voice quaking, “just _what_?”

She lifts her ancient eyes back to you and smiles - _really_ smiles. It’s not the predatory show of teeth or the disdainful curl of her lips that you’ve grown accustomed to, but something rarer; something that makes the skin crinkle at the corners of her eyes and the edges of her nose. Somehow, it softens you.

“You’re just _mine_.”

Barely supressing a shiver, you ask quietly, “so what does that mean?”

“I’m not sure.” She huffs and folds her arms. “Usually it means I play until I get bored, and then… well. You can fill in the blanks.”

“Yeah.” You wince at the thought. “Is that-? What the Lumiat was saying, about-”

“Yes.” She nods jerkily. “Yes, that’s what she meant.”

“So you kill me in the end.”

Missy’s expression is impenetrable. You drop your head again, picking at the rusty stains on your fingers, feeling tacky blood cracking on the skin of your face. You work your jaw restlessly.

“Well. That makes sense. That’s always- I always expected that.”

Still she says nothing. You breathe a shaky sigh.

“Do you know how? When?”

“No.” The response is hushed. You smile wryly to yourself.

“Would you tell me, if you did?”

“I might. It’s hard to say.”

“Right. Of course.” You risk a glance up at her and wish that you hadn’t. The way that she’s looking at you makes you feel two inches tall. “So what now?”

“Now we get you cleaned up. You look like something from the back room of an abattoir.”

She cracks another smile and it’s infectious. The curve of your own lips is weak, but unstoppable. When she crouches in front of you and brings the damp washcloth to your face you reach up to take it from her, but she loops the fingers of her free hand around your wrist before you get there.

“It’s alright, Missy. You don’t have to- I can sort myself out.”

“I know.” She squeezes, gently, almost comforting. “Let me do it anyway.”


	29. No. 29 - Reluctant Bedrest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No rest for the wicked.

“Do you have to go right now?”

Missy scoffs and tosses her head impatiently. With quick fingers she fastens her coat once more, tugging it into place until the faint creases over her corseted waist disappear. “No rest for the wicked, poppet. The engines aren’t getting any better. I need _power_ , and I need it soon.”

“Right. Of course.” Another wave of exhaustion hits, clenching your temples with pain and sending your eyelids fluttering. You shake it off, gripping the carved bedpost harder until it digs into your hand. “I can come with you.”

“You absolutely can _not_.” She turns away from the full-length mirror to fix you with a withering look. “Look at the state of you. You’re a liability.”

You laugh bitterly. “Wow, thanks for that.”

“You’re supposed to be _sleeping_. I didn’t bring you here so that you could pester me.”

“I’m not trying to _pester-”_

“Well you’re doing a remarkable job of it.” She bares her teeth. “ _Sleep._ It’s a perfectly good bed, I use it myself occasionally.”

The bed, in fact, is heavenly. It takes all of your strength to keep sitting up at the foot of it, your aching head and weary body protesting fiercely with every second you remain upright. Resisting the temptation to collapse on your back is nigh on impossible.

Still, you manage. Just about.

“Will you be alright on your own?”

A wry chuckle. “I was alright on my own for _centuries_ , dear.”

“And then you kidnapped a random human off the street to keep you company,” you remind her, “so forgive me if I’m not convinced.”

“ _Right_.” She spits the word out with obvious distaste. “That’s it. I tried to be nice.”

Despite the sharpness of her voice you don’t even have the strength to flinch. When she sweeps over to you, you watch her with thinly veiled confusion. She smiles, sickle-sharp, and it doesn’t frighten you at all.

“This won’t hurt a bit.”

Her fingertips meet your temple.

After that; nothing.


	30. No. 30 - Ignoring An Injury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missy returns empty-handed and furious.

You don’t stir when the bedroom door swings open. You barely twitch when Missy, muttering obscenities under her breath, throws her ruined jacket to the ground and begins to untie the pussy bow at the collar of her blouse. It’s not until she slams her hand into the brocade wallpaper and sets the floor-length mirror rattling on its hook, snarling like a cornered animal, that you find yourself jerked from sleep.

“-favourite _bloody_ blouse, again! No respect, no _finesse_. Couldn’t have just gone for my throat like any _self-respecting_ -”

“Missy?”

She cuts off immediately at the sound of your voice. Rubbing bleary eyes and wincing at the pain in your head, which is dulled by sleep but not yet gone, you sit up with some effort. Your body sinks into the thick pillows at your back.

She leans heavily towards the mirror with one hand braced on the wall, her dark head bowed. Her other palm is pressed to her right side, facing away from you.

“Are you, um,” the question feels absurd, particularly with your voice still thick from lethargy. You swallow hard to clear your throat. “Are you alright?”

Missy chuckles bitterly and gives you a terse answer. “I’m fine.”

You nod, unconvinced, and wet your lips, proceeding with caution. “You didn’t find it, then?”

“Find it?” She scoffs. “Oh, I found it. I found it, I _took_ it, and they _took it back_.” Once more, the heel of her hand thuds into the wall. The mirror shakes perilously. “Stupid, foul creatures.”

“I’m sorry.” Tentatively, you throw the covers aside. The thick carpet is warm under your bare feet when you perch at the side of the bed. “Did they- are you hurt?”

“Just my pride.” She scowls down at the hand pressed over her ribs. “And one of my livers. Quick with a rapier, the little bastards.”

“You got _stabbed_?”

“Looks like it.” Frowning, she straightens up and twists to inspect the injury in the mirror. The dark fabric of her blouse is torn, revealing a glimpse of the ivory corset beneath and a splash of vivid orange blood. Her lips curl with disdain. “Oh, yes. That’s a _deep_ one. Might feel that tomorrow.”

“Oh my _God_ , Missy-”

Forgetting the wooziness for a moment, you launch yourself to your feet, only for another pang to rocket through your skull and almost send you to the ground.

The impact never comes; Missy is at your side immediately, looping a strong arm around your waist and hauling you upright against her unhurt side.

“Would you _watch it_?” She scowls. “The last thing I need is you knocking yourself out again.”

“Sorry.” You press a hand to your throbbing head. “Sorry, I just- are you alright? Can I help?”

“Not judging by the look of you, no.” Once you’ve steadied yourself with a hand on the bedpost, she lets go and moves back to the mirror. “I’ll be fine in a few days. I just need to wash the _stink_ of that planet off me and find another power source, _again_.”

As she speaks, she tugs her tattered blouse loose from her skirt and removes it without waiting for you to avert your eyes. You inhale sharply, captivated by the sight of her chemise and bloodied corset, the thickets of dense dark hair in her pale underarms. The skirt swiftly follows and she kicks the whole mess of fabric with her boot, scattering it into the corner by the door.

She blows a loose strand of hair from her face and slumps into the chair at the vanity. Above the line of the corset her chest is just barely heaving with the strain. Her ankles cross, her elbow propped up on the gleaming surface of the table and her forehead cradled in her hand.

When she throws you a sideways glance and catches you staring, still on your feet, she scoffs. “Did you want something?”

The mass of tangled words behind your teeth is impossible. What comes out, soft and hesitant, is only, “I could help with your boots.”

Missy lifts her head and appraises you carefully as if she’s seeing you for the first time. You shrink under her gaze, feeling your face heat, conscious of every tiny movement. Eventually, she murmurs, “alright then.”

She watches intently while you cross the room, as though she expects you to jump at her closeness and rescind your offer. It would be almost too easy to convince yourself that she’s compelling you to lower yourself to your knees in front of her, that her influence is twisting your mind, but the truth is plain to you both and it turns the air thick and heavy around you.

Missy is hurt, and you don’t like it.

Missy is hurt, and you want to help.

She would help you.

The scuffed leather of her boot feels warm under your hands when you take hold of her left foot and, without thinking, you stroke your hand reverently up her calf. To soothe, perhaps. To feel. To savour.

Above you, she parts her red, red lips.

If your touch lingers for a moment too long at the line where leather meets thick stocking, just below her knee, she doesn’t seem to mind.

You busy yourself with the laces and drop your eyes to your work there, but the heat prickling over your scalp doesn’t let you forget her watchfulness. Once you’ve loosened them enough, you grip the heel of her boot and she pulls herself free of it with startling elegance.

“Good girl,” she murmurs, and her voice is thick. Your breath catches in your throat at the sound. “Do you like to help?”

“I think so.” You shrug, but the movement is too small, and it feels like a shiver. “It makes me feel… I don’t know. Better.”

“Do you like being here, with me?” The waver in the question is masked by the way she presses her stockinged foot into your lap, letting it rest against your thigh. You cover her slender ankle with your fingers unthinkingly.

“Does it matter?” With gentle fingers you press down, rubbing the ball of the joint, following the shape lower until you’re massaging her foot with one hand. The fabric is soft under your touch, the shape of her small foot strangely vulnerable. She hums at your answer.

“Not really.” The heel of her other boot presses into your thigh uncomfortably when she props her right foot in your lap for you to continue. You start at the laces again without further prompt. “Indulge me, anyway.”

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. “But if this is it… if this is my life now, then- I may as well try to. You can be kind, sometimes.”

“Can I?” She doesn’t harden but her heel presses deeper, digging into flesh and muscle.

“Yes.” Your eye twitches but you manage to hide your wince. “When you want to be, you can. And you haven’t let me die.”

“But you will. One day.”

“Everybody dies one day.” She lifts her foot to let you ease the boot off and set it aside. The soles of both feet rest on your thighs. Her toes curl, almost experimentally, when you apply both hands to the task of caressing her stockinged feet. “On Earth I might get hit by a bus crossing the road. At least this is interesting.”

“Or frightening.”

“Same thing.” You look up at her through your lashes. “You taught me that.”

She smiles, all teeth, glistening wetly in that crimson mouth. “You were listening.”

“Always, Mistress.”

The kiss you press to the outside of her right ankle is nothing short of worship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, this is sort of the end - the next chapter is a snippet from further in the future!


	31. No. 31 - Whipped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missy has had a terrible day. Fortunately, she has a devoted pet to play with.

Firelight warms your bare breasts.

With your head bowed, you study the pattern in the Persian rug. It’s thick and coarse under your knees. Your hands stay folded in your lap, wringing with anticipation. The naked skin of your back is cold as you face the library hearth.

You suspect that this will change soon.

Behind you, leather creaks. Fabric rustles. Missy’s heels are muffled by the carpet but you feel her gaze on you no less keenly than the pain you know is coming. Where her blue eyes flit across your kneeling body they leave prickling gooseflesh in their wake as if she’d caressed you with her cool fingers. You wish, in some small way, that she would touch you now, but you know that that is _not_ the game.

Soft touches will come; comfort will be had. She will put you back together with aching precision until the joins between shards barely show.

First, though, she will take you apart.

“I want you to beg me.”

Your eyes flutter closed at the sound of her voice. A long, low breath you hadn’t known you were holding shakes loose. “Yes, Mistress.”

When her red lips curl back from those sharp, sharp teeth you can almost hear it. You know that the smile is slick and glistening, that it borders on monstrous but for that spark of pure pleasure in her eyes. It’s the smile she gives when she watches a city burn or a star collapse and she gives it, now, to you.

“I want you to beg me for _more_.”

You haul in a deep lungful of wood smoke, failing to supress a shiver. This rule is a rare one; she must have had a _terrible_ day. With a shallow nod, you answer, “of course, Mistress.”

“Good girl. Remember your manners.”

As if you would _ever_ forget them.

“Yes, Mistress.” You wet your lips where the fire has dried them out. For a moment you savour the words before you speak them, rolling them around in your mouth so that you never forget the taste. “Please, Mistress. Please may I have the whip?”

The question hangs heavily in the air and it warms your skin like the firelight. You could swear that the flames roar higher, that the TARDIS hums louder, that Missy parts her lips and breathes the words into her like smoke.

When, at last, she speaks, it’s with her own sort of mercy.

“Yes, you may.”

Nine knotted strands of leather bite into the skin over your right shoulder blade. The pain is exquisite, a startling sting and burn for which experience could never prepare you. You cry out, bowing deeper, tangling your fingers together as if to keep yourself held to the ground. Shadows of dancing flames wash over your closed eyes.

“Thank you, Mistress,” you gasp, when you can. “Please may I have another?”

Across your left shoulder, this time, three upon three upon three streaks of liquid fire set your body trembling. The choked noise that leaves your mouth is already pitiful. Tears bite sharp in your throat. It takes a long moment to swallow them.

“Thank you, Mistress.” Hoarse, but still strong, wavering, but still wanting, you ask, “please may I have another?”

You don’t count. You couldn’t, if you wanted to; you know this already. In the fog of bite and blaze you lose the numbers. You lose the sounds. You lose the will to move your lips and tongue for anything but the _words_ , the name, the plea, the promise. The gratitude. The devotion.

“Thank you, Mistress.” Tears weigh down your lashes and dry on your cheeks in the heat of the fire. Your breaths come in sobbing snatches. Blood, thin trails of stinging salt, charts its way along the gentle curve of your spine. As your flesh protests you manage only, “please.”

Finally Missy runs her fingers across your back, sweeping up hot blood, igniting row upon row of blistering pain. Your shuddering moan is whipped away by the flames. Beneath her touch you quake, you arch, you shudder and twitch like a woman flayed, and she strokes you through it with worshipful tenderness.

Those same fingers are slick and warm and horribly, beautifully redwith you when she uses them to lift your face to her.

“What is it that you want?” The pad of her thumb smears your lips with iron and paints them as crimson as hers. Her eyes flash in the firelight; now gold, now black, now bluer than blue could ever be. “Ask me for it, dearest.”

Here, on your knees like this, you could ask her for anything. She would give it. She would rend flesh and space and time at your word.

“Please,” you whisper again, watching her watch you. Each grinding turn of the cogs within your mind is as loud as thunder for her. She listens with obvious relish. “Please, Mistress.”

“Ask me,” she says again, her head tilting, her fingers tightening, nothing but honey in the words. In the face of infinity there is only one thing you desire.

“Please may I have another?”

When she takes your mouth with hers, all you taste is blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you have it! This is what I spent my October doing! I had so much fun exploring Missy's character like this (and satisfying some of my darker urges in the process).


End file.
